


Infinite

by klassmartin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Old Age, Post-Series, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 11:32:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11758953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klassmartin/pseuds/klassmartin
Summary: Behind her sunglasses, her green eyes are closed, face turned towards the sun. Countless times Stiles has admired her, but it never really gets old. She is as beautiful - no, more so - than the first time he laid eyes on her. Stiles has spent much of his life wondering what he did in a past life to deserve her, and after so long, he is still no closer to an answer.“Have I ever told you how much I love you?”Lydia fails to hide a smile. “It's come up once or twice.”---Or: Stiles and Lydia get ready to celebrate a very important anniversary.





	Infinite

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mess two years and played around a little with it today before deciding, meh, I kinda like the messy. I have absolutely no idea why I wrote it, and had forgotten all about it until finding it in my drafts so... Sorry if messy was not your aim.
> 
> There is a reference from Scrubs hidden in here, because I strongly believe the Sciles bromance is the younger version of Turk and J.D. Any other influences have been forgotten over time.

“Oops.”

“Lydia! Seriously?!” Stiles stares at the chess pieces now scattered on the porch. “How are you still such a sore loser?”

She shrugs, using her left foot to restart the rocking of her chair, manicured hands smoothing the blanket draped over her lap. “How can I be a sore loser when I never lose?”

“That's because you find a way to end any game you're losing before I can officially win.” With a huff, Stiles glares at the knee that had just ‘accidentally’ put an end to their game. Lydia is smirking at his pout and he rolls his eyes in response, instead turning to the view of the street. It's quiet, as is expected at this time of the afternoon, most people at work or school, so the only thing to really look at is the vibrant collection Lydia keeps in their front yard. It's a rainbow of colour, a mixture of pretty flowers and powerful plants (because you never really know what could be about to happen). The sprinklers are on and he thinks back to when he and Scott used to run through them as little boys, shrieking with glee and making their mother’s frown when they left puddles in the house. He can see Scott now, sitting in his favourite chair by his window, reading a book. Stiles coughs and Scott glances up, a smile stretched across his face, and Stiles is immensely pleased they have managed to live across the road from each other for so long.

Once Scott has turned back to his book, Stiles turns to Lydia once more.

Behind her sunglasses, her green eyes are closed, face turned towards the sun. Countless times Stiles has admired her, but it never really gets old. She is as beautiful - no, more so - than the first time he laid eyes on her. Stiles has spent much of his life wondering what he did in a past life to deserve her, and after so long, he is still no closer to an answer.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

Lydia fails to hide a smile. “It's come up once or twice.”

“Then I definitely haven't told you enough.”

She sighs, turning her gaze to him. “I think we're both acutely aware of how we feel about each other.”

Resting his chin on his hand, a grin flashes across his face. “Doesn't mean I can't express my feelings towards my wonderful, beautiful wife.”

Lydia chuckles and wraps her hand around his, turning back to the sun. “You need to wear your glasses more often, old man.”

“I am not old, thank you very much.”

“You can barely walk from our bedroom to the bathroom.”

“That's hardly my fault.”

Her lips purse and without seeing her face he knows the ghost of fear that flashes across it. She drops his hand. “You're the one who got himself shot.”

“Well I wasn't going to let Scott take the bullet.”

“He could have healed; you almost died.”

It's an age-old argument that will never be solved, both adamant in their views on the situation. He regrets how it caused her pain, but not the move itself. Without taking the bullet, Scott wouldn't have gone on to save five lives. A bullet in the thigh is a small price to pay for that.

“I'm sorry.”

“No you're not.”

Stiles picks up her hand again and rubs the metal of her wedding ring. “I don't want to fight. Not today.”

Lydia huffs but removes her sunglasses, and when she turns to face him he can see she has relented. “What time is the party again?”

“Four.” Stiles checks the time; two forty seven. “I suppose we should get started.”

Lydia folds her blanket and begins collecting the chess pieces while Stiles puts away the knitting - yes, he knows, he's a stereotype, but it really helps relieve his antsy hands - that lay forgotten in his lap. Scott has looked up again at their movement, must realise the time as he closes his book and moves out of view only to appear at his front door moments later, shouting something along of the lines of, “I'm going to help set up” into the house. Stiles grins as his best friend crosses the road, and Lydia finally notices him, calling a greeting as she collects their mugs from the table.

“Don’t you look handsome, Scotty. One could even say, dapper.”

“Careful, or Lydia may think she has competition.”

Without glancing up from her task, she responds, “I knew when I married him I would never quite own all of his heart.”

Stiles gasps, hand to his chest. “Excuse you. Did we not just have the how-much-I-love-you conversation.”

“Stiles. You chose this house specifically because it was opposite Scott. We all know there's really three people in this marriage.”

“ _ We  _ chose this house because of its excellent views and value for money. Scott just happened to live nearby - and I think you're forgetting that Scott is married already. To his wife. Who is definitely not you or me, last I checked.”

Lydia just rolls her eyes fondly as she steps inside and Scott walks behind him, patting him on the shoulder. “We are a little bit married.”

“I know, but that doesn't help me prove my point. Especially on our anniversary.” 

Stiles sighs as Scott begins to push him into the house, because he still hates it, hates not being able to bound around like he used to, chasing after Lydia to pepper her face with kisses until she gives in and admits she knows how she's his number one (and okay, so Scott is a very close second - the kids don't count in this rating scale because then it would definitely be impossible - but that still makes her top of the list) or just be able to carry the chess board back to its place in the living room like anyone should be able to do. He may not regret the act that eventually ended with him stuck in this wheelchair, but he hates it all the same. Stiles has spent much of his life being battered, bruised and broken, a life of waking nightmares and terror and adventures , that makes being stuck in this chair even worse. He misses being young. He feels it most of the time, but then he sees his hands or his reflection and he is reminded of what he really is - a very lucky, still surviving old man.

“Did you ever think we’d get here?” Stiles muses aloud.

“You and Lydia?”

“In general. Like, somehow alive despite it all.”

Scott walks around to face his best friend, clasping his hands together. Though the wolf in him has slowed his aging some, Scott is still old, though mostly around the eyes, in the set of his shoulders. Since they first got thrown into the world of things that go bump in the night, Scott has always seemed older than he is, and he has carried that with him through life. He has seen too much, knows too much, for his eyes to not show the wise, heroic man he has become. 

There is a moment of quiet contemplation before Scott choose to answer honestly, “No, I didn't. I'm not really sure how we did.”

They almost didn't. Many times. Too many times to count really. Stiles doesn't really know how they survived when so many didn't, and he knows to be grateful for what he has and not bitter over what he does not. 

“Do you have any regrets?”

Scott frowns. “There are definitely some things I wish never happened, but… No. I don't think I can, not after all it led to.” Scott pauses, then asks, “How about you, any regrets?”

Stiles sighs, the faces of those lost flashing before his eyes. “I don't know.”

He doesn't need to look at his best friend to know Scott can see them too, can feel the echo of grief that they've spent too much of their lives coping with.

“I do know one thing though.” Scott perches on the armrest of the sofa, a fond smiles lighting up his eyes. He is looking at the portrait on the wall, a photo Stiles has committed deeply to memory from a day he could never forget. Lydia dressed in white, his arms wrapped tight around her, both grinning at the other as confetti rains down around them.

“What's that?”

“I knew  _ you _ would make it here. Stiles and Lydia, fifty years strong.”

Stiles laughs a sound of true happiness, and it's enough to get Lydia to enter the living room, glancing between the men. She follows Scott’s gaze to the photo and finds herself smiling too, approaching her husband to give him a sweet kiss on the cheek. “Can you believe it's been half a century since that photo was taken?”

Stiles grasps her hand between both of his, staring up at the only woman he has ever loved. Lydia may be older now - strawberry blonde long ago faded to grey, laughter lines carved into her skin -  but he stills sees her, under the toll of time, as the girl who saved his life, the woman who walked down the aisle to him, the mother who bought three perfect combinations of them into the world. And then he thinks of the children and the grandchildren that will soon arrive, his family that he cherishes so dearly, loves so much it hurts, and he knows. He can't quite bring himself to have any regrets when it has all led to this.


End file.
